The Last Lies of Ardor Benn

by Tyler Whitesides

  Quarrah thought Ard was trying to sound abstruse, but he wasn’t the only one who had picked up on the Trothian word for the saltwater soak.

  “For obviously reasons, there isn’t a written menu,” Ard continued. “But Raek and I tried a sample platter last night while we were setting things up in here.”

  “Too salty,” Raek said, finally turning away from the wall, satisfied that the map was hanging straight. “I think I drank the well dry when I got home last night.”

  “But rumor has it that one of the cooks knows some Lander dishes,” Ard said hopefully. “And if that doesn’t pan out, there’s a great little bakery just across the street.”

  Quarrah walked forward slowly, passing between a pair of armchairs as she tested the new section of flooring that covered the bath. She tried to peer down between the wooden floorboards, but they were nailed too tightly.

  “How much do you trust these boards?” she asked, feeling them flex underfoot ever so slightly.

  “A hundred percent,” replied Ard. “We had a top-notch Trothian carpenter install it. And take a look at this special feature.”

  He strode over to a chair with a vibrant green cushion. Standing back, he grabbed the wooden arm and yanked upward. Instantly, a trapdoor swung downward on well-concealed hinges. The armchair went with it, but it must have been securely mounted to the hatch because it hung there, facing straight down.

  “This is in case you still want to take a swim?” Quarrah asked. If someone had been seated in the chair, it would have dumped them face first into the bath.

  “We drained the water,” Ard explained, seating himself at the edge so his legs dangled into the dark opening. Then he reached down and grabbed the back of the mounted chair, using it as a brace to swing out of sight into the empty hole of a bath. “Come check it out,” his voice floated up.

  Quarrah glanced at Raek, who made an expression indicating that the space below wasn’t anything to be overly excited about, but it would be best just to indulge the ruse artist.

  She crouched down to grab the back of the armchair, and then nimbly lowered herself to join Ard.

  “A hideout within a hideout,” Ard said. “I know you’re not fond of windowless buildings with only one door, but Hedge wouldn’t allow me to install another exit. So I thought the next best thing would be to build us a good place to hide.”

  He reached out and grabbed a weighted rope. Giving it a long pull, the trapdoor with its mounted armchair rose back into place, plunging Quarrah and Ard into darkness, broken only by a few thin lines of light falling through some of the wider gaps in the boards overhead.

  “This is where we’re keeping our stores of liquid Grit,” Ard said, rustling around in the darkness. “We’ve also got a cache of guns and ammunition and enough food and fresh water for the three of us to survive for a week.”

  Quarrah raised an eyebrow. “Do you really see that happening? I mean, the trapdoor is clever, but it’s not entirely foolproof. Anyone familiar with Tofar’s Salts would know about the existence of this bath.”

  “True,” said Ard. “Still, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.”

  Sparks suddenly sizzled through the darkness, and Quarrah squinted at a little orb of Light Grit springing up in Ard’s hand. A quick glance around the large space revealed all the supplies Ard had mentioned. He left his Light detonation hanging in midair and moved to the far end of the empty bath.

  “Here’s what makes this little hole really worthwhile.” Ard dropped to a knee and pointed at a metal crank handle. It jutted out of the stone wall of the bath above a rectangular indentation.

  With what looked like little effort, he turned the handle a few revolutions. The action was accompanied by a grating sound as the small rectangular section in the wall began to rise like a sluice gate.

  “Behold, the complex plug to the bathtub,” Ard said once the gate was fully raised. The opening at the bottom of the wall was about the same size as that waste chute she’d squeezed through while escaping Lord Dulith’s manor.

  “The Trothians pitch the seams when they fill the Be’Igoth,” Ard said. “Between the seal and the weight of the water, they discovered that it was difficult to pull a plug on a pool this deep. So they installed this nifty mechanism to drain the Be’Igoth into the baths outside.”

  Quarrah dropped to her stomach and peered out the opening. She could see daylight through a grate on the other end. Based on the placement of the pool in relation to the layout of the room above, she guessed this tight passageway was about fifteen feet long. And now that she thought of it, she’d noticed the metal grate next to the steps outside.

  “So if things go badly,” Ard surmised, “we drop down here and shimmy our way outside. Hopefully before they find the trapdoor.”

  “How secure is that grate?” Quarrah asked. She’d have no leverage to kick it free once she was inside that drain shaft.

  “That’s a great question,” Ard said, nodding. “I’ve got people looking into it.”

  “Oh?” She stood up as Ard ratcheted the sluice gate shut. “Who?”

  “You?” He smiled awkwardly at her. “Will you look into that?”

  “It’s probably held in place by a handful of masonry nails,” she said. “I can loosen them and install a latch that holds the grate in place from the inside. Something easy to undo in a hurry.”

  “Thanks,” Ard said. “It’s good to have your professional eye again.”

  The compliment hit Quarrah so unexpectedly that she couldn’t decide whether to absorb it or shrug it off. Instead of doing either, she decided to point out another flaw in Ard’s escape plan.

  “Raek won’t fit,” she said, lowering her voice so the big man above wouldn’t hear.

  Ard scratched behind his ear thoughtfully, eyes lingering on the sluice gate and the small drain shaft. “Yeah. He knows.” Ard crossed back over to the rope dangling from the trapdoor. “The trick is to stay ahead of Hedge Marsool so we never have to use this squirrel hole.”

  “How do we stay ahead of someone who claims to see the future?” Quarrah pointed out.

  “Maybe we just keep the future unpredictable.” Ard grabbed the rope and gave it a sharp tug.

  Nothing happened.

  He muttered something under his breath as he pulled again, but the trapdoor didn’t budge.

  “It doesn’t open from the inside, does it?” Quarrah asked with a smirk.

  Ard’s face turned sheepish in the glow of the tiny Light cloud. “I guess we didn’t specify that in the plans for the carpenter,” he admitted, swatting the air hopelessly at the trapdoor eight feet above. “But hey. Look on the bright side. We’ve got more than a week’s worth of food and water.” He shrugged. “And the company’s not half bad, either.”

  The trapdoor suddenly dropped open, causing Quarrah and Ard to flinch at the appearance of the falling armchair. Raek peered down at them, his bald head shining in the light from the upper room.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said, “but our appointment is knocking on the door, and it sort of ruins the whole secret trapdoor effect if you two come climbing up out of the floor.”

  He lent them both a hand, and with the support of the armchair, Quarrah found it quite easy to scramble out of the hole. In a flash, the floor was sealed, leaving no one to suspect that there was any way to access the empty pool with the new flooring in place.

  Ard straightened his vest and ran a hand over his short styled hair. Then he strode to the front door of the Be’Igoth and pulled it open.

  Drot was still standing guard, but now there were two Trothian women beside him. Quarrah recognized one of them as Geppel, the tall willowy greeter who collected payments at the entrance to Tofar’s Salts. Geppel spoke perfect Landerian and Hedge paid her handsomely, which made Quarrah a little uneasy. But the woman had orders to let Quarrah, Ard, and Raek come and go from the Be’Igoth without charge. In many ways, Geppel had become their primary liaison with Hedge Marsool,
passing messages and giving updates to the King Poacher.

  “Omligath, Geppel,” Ard greeted her. He waved the two women inside, closing the door behind them.

  Geppel’s companion was short, her black hair cropped tightly to her blue scalp. Her round face carried the plumpness of youth while somehow looking mature. If Quarrah had to guess—and it was difficult with Trothians—she’d say the woman was just out of her teens.

  “Thank you for meeting us,” Ard said to the short woman. “My name is Ardor Benn. These are my companions, Raek and Quarrah.”

  Geppel slipped into Trothian, translating Ard’s words for her companion. “Vorish,” the woman introduced herself.

  “Come sit down.” Ard led the way to the seating area over the empty pool. “Can I order you anything to eat or drink?”

  After a brief exchange in Trothian, Geppel answered. “She says a glass of salt water would be fine.” Then the translator gave a wily smile. “But if you’re paying, I could go for a fish hrav.”

  Raek crossed back to the door to catch the attention of one of the many servers running the boardwalks outside. Ard carefully seated himself on the trapdoor chair with the green cushion, while Geppel and Vorish took the padded bench across from the coffee table. Quarrah remained standing. No sense in being caught off guard.

  “Does she know why we asked to meet with her?” Ard asked Geppel.

  “She knows it has to do with her home islet,” she answered. “And the Agrodite Moon Glass. But she doesn’t know you plan on stealing it. If you want her to talk, you’d be wise to keep it that way.”

  “Wait,” Quarrah cut in. “But you know?” She stared pointedly at the Trothian translator.

  “Relax,” Ard said. “She works for Hedge. We’re doing the job for him. Geppel is onboard.” He turned to Vorish. “Tell us a little about the Trothian islets. Have you visited many of them?”

  Geppel translated the request to Vorish and spoke her response. “I have been to all of the islets in Ra Skal.” Geppel drummed her fingers on the arm of the bench as if trying to think of the translation. “A skal is like a grouping,” she settled on saying. “Or cluster.”

  “And Ra Skal?” Ard said. “Where is it located?”

  “To the northwest,” replied Geppel. “Between Strind and Dronodan.”

  Vorish continued speaking, and Geppel resumed the interpretation. “Our islets are much closer together than your great islands. There are no cliffs to divide us, just long beaches of soft sand caressed by the lapping waters.”

  “She’s quite poetic, isn’t she?” Ard remarked.

  “That is the nature of our language,” replied Geppel. “It’s why so few of your people speak it well. On the other hand, my Landerian is so good because I mastered its secret.”

  “Oh?” said Ard.

  “I just think of the least intelligent way to say something and it comes out sounding right,” she replied bluntly. “Look, if I’d known your questions would be this basic, I could have answered them. Surely you’ve seen the islets as you sail past?”

  The comment obviously bothered Ard. Quarrah knew he always had a masterplan to every conversation. “I’m trying to establish trust,” he explained. “Show her that we’re interested in something she loves.” He leaned forward to better engage Vorish. “Tell us about your home.”

  “I hail from the Ennoth,” Geppel translated. “It is the center for Agrodite worship on Ra Skal.”

  Good, Quarrah thought. At least they’d brought in the right person. It hadn’t taken much digging to learn that Lyndel was last seen on Ra Skal. And since she was an Agrodite priestess, it followed that she’d be at the center of worship.

  “What can you tell me about the features and layout of your islet?” Quarrah asked.

  “It was low enough to be chosen as the Ennoth for our skal,” Geppel translated. Then she added on her own, “In your tongue, ennoth would translate to something like ‘sacred site.’ Only two of the four skals have an island low enough to serve as an Ennoth.”

  “Low enough?” Ard questioned. “What does that mean?”

  Geppel chose to translate that question and let Vorish answer. “Every cycle, our people excavate a network of canals through the sand. They run from beach to beach, filling with seawater that refreshes itself with the crash of the waves.”

  “And you do that to make it easier for the fajumar?” Ard said. Again, Quarrah thought he was just trying to impress Geppel with his simple knowledge of her language.

  “Not only the soak,” she translated, “but for drinking and cleaning as well. But that is not the primary purpose of the pats. The trenches also ensure that the Ennoth will drown properly during the Moon Passing.”

  “Hold on,” Ard cut in. “What, now?”

  “You have seen the water rise when the Red Moon passes?”

  “It has little effect on our islands,” Ard replied. Quarrah didn’t agree. Throughout the Greater Chain, the nights of a Moon Passing were considered a time to stay indoors. The harbors basically shut down, halting travel between islands while the rising water swelled over the docks. People flocked to the Mooring to witness the lighting of the Holy Torch. Once a cycle, behaviors and routines were markedly different. Why was Ard downplaying that?

  “During such a Passing, the water rises and every part of the Ennoth is covered with a blanket of seawater,” Geppel translated.

  “The whole island floods?” Ard exclaimed. “That’s got to be hard on the crops and livestock. Can’t you find a way to prevent it?”

  Seeming amused, Geppel repeated the question and waited for Vorish’s answer. “We look forward to the drowning of the Ennoth each cycle. Ranching and agriculture are Lander skills unnecessary for the survival of our race. Life on our islets is fully sustained by the sea that surrounds us.”

  Ard tilted his head skeptically. “The best bakery I’ve ever visited was run by a Trothian woman. You’re telling me she just opened shop so she could gain my trust, betray me to the crooked king, and jeopardize everything I’d worked for?” He held up his hand. “Maybe don’t translate that last part.”

  “Sounds like you’re still working through it,” Geppel said.

  “I really liked her pastries,” muttered Ard.

  Geppel spoke to Vorish and translated the reply. “There are many Trothians who have found success farming and raising livestock on our higher islets. We have traded and sold product to Landers for centuries. But I am saying that none of that is necessary for Trothian survival. If every Lander were to vanish tomorrow, the sea and the blessed Moon would sustain us forevermore.”

  The door suddenly opened and Raek reappeared, a tall wooden cup in one hand and a steaming bowl in the other.

  “One lukewarm cup of fresh salt water for the young lady,” he said, passing it to Vorish, who accepted it with a word of gratitude.

  “And one fish hrav for the intrepid gatekeeper of Tofar’s Salts. Careful, it’s hot.” Raek passed the bowl to Geppel and dropped into the seat Quarrah had been leaning against.

  Undeterred by Raek’s warning, Geppel lifted the bowl to her lips and slurped the steaming liquid. “Did Sochar make this?” she asked, her voice accusatory.

  “Sochar?” Raek raised his eyebrows to show that he didn’t know who that was. “Is it, maybe… too salty?”

  “It’s fine,” Geppel remarked. “I just don’t like the way he cuts the shark tentacles.”

  Quarrah shuddered. She’d eaten shark before—the meat from its side was almost like beef. But she couldn’t imagine slurping down those slippery tentacles from the big fish’s mouth. It was no wonder Trothian cuisine hadn’t taken root among the Landers.

  “So what did I miss?” Raek asked. “Did she tell us where Lyndel keeps the Moon Glass?”

  “We’re getting there,” said Ard. “She just finished explaining that the island where Lyndel lives completely floods during the Moon Passings.”

  Raek shook his head. “That’s gotta be hard on the crops and
livestock.”

  “That’s what I said,” Ard remarked, nodding emphatically.

  Sometimes it was eerie how similarly the two men thought. And yet, at other times, they seemed so wildly different. Quarrah thought Ard would be a lot more tolerable if some of Raek’s easygoing demeanor rubbed off on him. But then, Raek had his own issues, starting with his unwillingness to do anything about his Heg addiction.

  “What happens to your homes during the Passing?” Raek asked Vorish.

  “Our dwellings are built to withstand the rising water,” came her answer.

  “So do you just swim all night?” asked Ard.

  “It is a night of celebration,” she said. “The old and the weak can rest on the rooftops of our homes while everyone else sings and the priestesses recite poems. Some play gras oronet.”

  “Is that a musical instrument?” Ard asked.

  Vorish chuckled when the translation went through. “It is a game,” she said. Then Geppel added, “The literal translation would be lucky fish.”

  “Then why didn’t you just say that the first time?” Raek muttered under his breath. “You are the translator.”

  “During the drowning of the Ennoth,” continued Vorish, “fish will swim across the flooded islet. It is considered good luck in the cycle to come if you can catch a fish with your bare hands. The bigger the fish, the greater the luck.”

  “Is that even challenging?” Ard asked. “I’ve heard Trothians are experts at fishing by hand.”

  Quarrah remembered the first time she’d watched a group of Trothian fishermen outside Leigh’s southern harbor on Dronodan. She’d been a little girl then, ignorant of so much of the world, and fascinated by the blue-skinned divers. Four of them would take a net, each holding a corner, and dive deep into the InterIsland Waters. Long minutes would pass, and just when Quarrah had been sure they’d drowned, the divers would resurface with a full load of wriggling fish.

  “Our vision normally allows us to see deep into the sea,” Geppel translated. “But on that night, the reflection of the Moon on the water’s surface creates an impenetrable glare to our eyes. It is as if the Moon has laid a great red blanket over the sea. Those who play gras oronet must keep their heads above water and go by feel alone as the fish swim past their legs.”